


Something With Explosions

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Christmas Lights, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Past Present Future Fic, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stubborn Derek Hale, Time Travel, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: --“Oh,” Derek said, just before he hit the ground. “This is going to hurt.”--Derek has become, for lack of a better word, untethered. Unmoored in time and space, flitting here and there and back again. It’s unnerving, disorienting, terrifying, educational.Apparently he missed a lot of things the first time around.--
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 32
Kudos: 338
Collections: The Sterek Secret Santa - Edition 2019





	Something With Explosions

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holiday Season to Ravenclawinstarfleet, who asked for Spark!Stiles and soulmates. I hope this little story provides some warm and fuzzy feelings!

\--

My quick sleep had deleted all  
Of intervening time and place.  
I only knew  
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.  
_~ Thom Gunn_

\--

when we met, and met, in spite of such differences  
in our lives,  
and did the common things that in our feeling  
became extraordinary, so that our first kiss  
was like the winter morning moon, and as you  
shifted in my arms  
it was the sea changing the shingle that changes  
it  
_~ Edwin Morgan_

\--

Remember this?

\--

There’d been a fight — a _difference of opinions_ — that had escalated because of tempers and casual thoughtlessness, and maybe feelings had been hurt because some people were stubborn and said stupid things. Then maybe a door closed too hard, and maybe he had to get out, just to clear his head. And, in hindsight, maybe it _was_ a bit reckless, but maybe it was just that kind of disagreement and maybe it was just that time of year and maybe it was just meant to all happen just like that, anyway.

“Oh,” Derek said, just before he hit the ground. “This is going to hurt.”

\--

“Hey. Hey _hey_ ,” said Stiles. He was slapping at Derek’s cheeks, lightly, but gathering strength and commitment as time passed. Derek knew some sort of time had passed. He didn’t know how he knew. Maybe it was his wolfy senses. Maybe it was the fact that he ached all over and he wasn’t healing, not fast enough, at least. Maybe it was the fact that Stiles looked different as he hovered over him, hair shorn short, eyes wide, skin smooth and uncreased. This Stiles was 10 years behind.

 _Backwards_ , thought Derek, irrationally, wondering how hard he’d hit his head when he fell. Time had passed indeed. _Backwards._

Then he thought, _I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t_ right.

“They’re coming,” Stiles hissed, hands balled up in the front of Derek’s shredded shirt. Derek wasn’t sure who _they_ were but he could hazard a guess. Something big. Something potentially deadly. “I don’t know where the pack is. They don’t know where _we_ are.” He paused in between hitches of breath. “Why aren’t you healing?”

 _Because something is wrong,_ thought Derek. _This isn’t_ right.

“You need to attract attention,” he said out loud. He felt light, like he was rising. Not a good sign, he knew. He felt heavy, too, and he knew he wouldn’t be moving fast anytime soon. He could hear the pack in the woods around them, but he could hear other things, too, dark things, things that could rip and tear.

“ _Attention_?” Stiles said, looking at him like he was crazy. He very well might be.

“The pack will get here first.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles said.

But Derek did know, because he _remembered_.

“Do it, Stiles.”

“How?” Stiles said, hands skittering over Derek’s body, raw and on edge and Derek took a chance.

“Use it,” he said. “You know how. Use it. Call the pack to us.”

“I,” Stiles started and he was already shaking his head, already giving up and that just wouldn’t do. “I don’t. I _can’t_.”

“You do. You can,” Derek said. “ _Do it_.” He paused. “Something with explosions.”

Stiles swallowed and stilled. He closed his eyes and balled his fists. He breathed deep, a shudder going through him, top to bottom. The ground shook beneath him and Stiles leaned back, fully engaged now, hands rising up and up until it emerged, the Spark, shooting up and up into the sky above them, lights and explosions like gunshots echoing around the woods and alerting the pack. It was a _zing zing zing_ and a flash of light that was particular to Stiles’ power, to his particular Spark. Derek recognized it, was achingly familiar with it, even if this Stiles was younger, his power barely formed and badly controlled.

“I did that,” Stiles said just over the din of Boyd and Erica, Scott and Isaac, panting and snarling, skidding into the clearing. Stiles leaned down, close to Derek’s ear, panting and pale, shocked at this sudden revelation. He looked right at Derek who was looking right back. “I _did_ that.”

“You did,” Derek said, consciousness fading and if the last thing he ever saw was Stiles’ pale radiant face, that was ok. “You did good, Stiles.”

\--

Fucking _high school_. This wasn’t just a random parallel universe, another point in time. It was some kind of horrific punishment designed to provide maximum torture.

Lockers, green and dented, metal on metal on metal all the way down the hall. Linoleum, black with scuff marks. A swirl of bodies, cloth and skin and teeth and hair. Everything smelled like sex and boiled hot dogs and sweat and cologne.

 _I’m not supposed to be here, either,_ Derek thought. Everything, _everything_ was messed up.

He saw Stiles before Stiles saw him. Loping down the hallway, hair still short but growing out, not buzzed, and he was taller now, rangier, leaner with long muscles moving under his jeans and layers, text books hitched under one long arm. His head was down but he was smiling to himself. Derek watched him, mesmerized. He barely remembered this Stiles, and yet he was as familiar as air, as the slightly erratic thud of his heart, the blood under his skin. And just like that Stiles’ head shot up and he looked right at Derek and smirked. 

Stiles looked at him a lot back then, Derek realized in that moment. And he looked at him _like that_ a lot back them. Derek remembered that particular expression from the teen years, a combination of surly and frustrated and annoyed and put out sometimes, with a little outright disgust thrown in for good measure. But also with curiosity. Fear. Something dark and intense that Derek never understood at the time.

Sometimes he caught Stiles looking at him with utter confusion, back then. Sometimes he even looked a tiny bit amused when Derek did or said something weird or awkward or cutting. Sometimes, he thought, there was even heat, just underneath the constant humming _zing_ of the Spark, the thing he tried so desperately to keep under control, before he understood what it was. Derek had missed that, he thought, how hard Stiles fought it.

Apparently he missed a lot of things the first time around.

Now Stiles tilted his head, held up one finger like, _Wait a minute, I’ll be right there_ , like he’d been expecting Derek and Derek just nodded, tight and terse, because, ok, what else was he going to do? Where else was he going to go?

Stiles turned on his heel then, approached the row of lockers and the girl standing there, the small, slight girl with the long strawberry blonde hair. Lydia, impossibly young and bright and looking right back at Stiles and.

Oh, Derek breathed, watching Stiles press into her, his mouth and his long, lean body, all of him up against her, her arms up around his neck. Derek’s heart writhed and his skin itched and his teeth dug into the tip of his tongue. _Don’t look_ , he thought, _look away, quick_.

This was going to hurt.

\--

Derek looked around the kitchen and frowned. It was his kitchen, in his refurbished house, not that long ago, maybe, but he didn’t remember this particular moment.

“What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here!” Stiles said. He flapped sticky, flour-coated hands at him.

 _I know_ , thought Derek.

Stiles sighed, deflated, and Derek took in the scene: batter and bowls, flour and bits of candied fruit scattered across both countertops. Three different tins filled with cakes, burned, crumbled, decimated. The room reeked of sugar and burnt batter. A thin smoky haze hung just at eye-level.

“Fruit cake,” Stiles said, like that explained it all.

“Fruit cake,” said Derek. Now he saw the decorated tree and brightly wrapped presents in the next room, the tinsel and mistletoe strung over doorways. Christmas, or close to it.

“You said, a few months ago. At the pack meeting. You mentioned your mom made the best fruit cake, but the recipe.” He paused. He wiped his sticky hands across the front of his shirt, over and over. “The recipe was gone. So I looked up some, a bunch of different ones, just to see.” He shrugged, mouth up on one side. “As you can see, it hasn’t actually been a success.”

Derek had no idea what to say.

“I even tried with my, you know, Spark. Just to see if it made a difference.” He was embarrassed, Derek realized. Or ashamed. “I know you don’t like it when I use it for stuff like this, or much at all, but.” He laughed then, a strangled sound and Derek wanted to weep. “Anyway! You weren’t supposed to know. Like, ever.”

And he didn’t. Derek realized. Stiles had thrown it all out and Derek had never known. He’d made this goddamn fruit cake, many of them, for Derek and then thrown them out and cleaned up the kitchen and never said a word.

“You did good,” Derek said, mouth dry, eyes wet, meaning every word, even though Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. “You did so good, Stiles.”

\--

“You’re acting weird,” Stiles said. He was twitching. Fucking high school, again. “You feeling ok?”

 _No_ , Derek thought. “Yes,” Derek said. “I’m fine. I’m.” He paused. “I’m out of sorts.”

Stiles snorted. “You sound like someone’s grandma.”

They were waiting outside the school — for Scott, presumably — leaning against the warm brick wall, shoulder to shoulder, Stiles tapping and tapping, humming under his breath. He flicked one finger, random, and a rock the size of his palm flips at his feet, skittered away towards the parking lot. He froze, looked over at Derek, wide-eyed and frightened.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been trying to contain it better, but Deaton said—”

Derek reached out to touch Stiles and Stiles jumped, his skin sizzling with energy. Then, before he could talk himself out of stupid decisions, Derek hugged him.

He threw his arms around Stiles, around the tight taut shoulders and pulled him close. Stiles was immovable, solid muscled rock under Derek’s arms. Derek didn’t give up, though. He was, if nothing else, stubborn and relentless. He pushed his hot face into Stiles’ hot soft neck and breathed in and out in and out in and out again and again and again. Stiles let him.

“Derek,” Stiles finally whispered. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

“I’m. I’m just. Uh.” It was the scent that undid him, the smell of Stiles’ skin. He started crying. Quietly, hot tears building and growing and releasing and sliding down his cheeks. He knew Stiles could feel them.

Very slowly and very reluctantly, Stiles unhinged the tight muscles in his arms and let them, very very slowly, slide around Derek’s middle.

“Derek,” he said, and his voice was much lower and much softer now. “What is it?”

Derek was sniffling. He couldn’t help it. It was all so stupid and sad. This was Stiles. His Stiles. And not his Stiles. And he missed _his_ Stiles so fucking much. He pushed his wet face into Stiles’ neck and Stiles was holding him tight, fingers pressing into Derek’s back, pulling him as close as he could. Derek could feel Stiles’ lips right against his left ear, asking him over and over what was wrong, maybe making soothing sounds, like It’s ok, don’t worry, stop stop stop.

“Derek,” he said again, right into his ear and he sounded kind of wrecked, voice breaking. “You’re…scaring me.”

And Derek finally stopped. He sucked in a wet snotty breath and pulled back just a bit, eyes down, breath hitching. 

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. He started babbling like an idiot. “Sorry sorry sorry sorr—”

“Derek,” Stiles said again, gripping tight and trying and failing to catch his eye. Derek was having none of that. “What the fuck is going on? Can you just tell me?” He paused, then said, like it pained him, “Please?”

“Something’s wrong,” Derek said. He shook his head, twice to each side, like he was trying to get water out of his ears.

“What?” Stiles said.

Derek shrugged and sighed, reluctant to pull completely away and Stiles’ grip loosened, just a bit and of course, that’s the exact moment when Scott finally made his appearance.

“Dudes,” he hissed. “What the _fuck_?”

\--

“Oh,” Stiles breathed. “You’re here.”

In the woods again, Stiles splayed out on the ground, bloody and broken, Spark gone wrong and Derek near blind with rage and grief. His hands were trembling and cold. This, _this_ is what he feared all along, what he always feared and couldn’t control: Stiles getting hurt.

“I’m here,” he said.

Derek wanted to take him, this Stiles, in his arms because he never had been able to, back then. How many version of Stiles had he missed out on, he wondered. How many new muscles, how many different twitches and expanses of skin, how many new cells formed without his knowledge.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stupidly, then shook his head. Stiles hitched in a breath and tried to focus.

“I’m never gonna get the hang of this,” Stiles said, low, bitter and desperate. “I have this fucking gift and I can’t even get it right. All of you, the rest of you, have something, and I have this, I could have this, and I just. I can’t do it.”

“You will,” Derek said, his voice coming out much too loud, way too sure. “You will. You’ll get it and you’ll get so good at it that people will come to you for help. You’ll teach people how to use their own Spark and you’ll be so good and so powerful.”

Stiles looked at him and his face was a mixture of things, mostly pain.

“How do you _know_?”

He took Stiles’ cold hand, held it with the thrum of energy zipping between them, held on so tight it probably hurt Stiles, but he couldn’t let go.

“I remember.”

\--

This scene, at least, he knew well.

In the woods, with dry, dead leaves under his feet and there was Stiles, so impossibly young it broke Derek’s heart in two.

Derek wanted to run to him right then, pull that fidgety, frightened boy into his arms and carry him off, leave Scott there more bewildered than he already was. He forced himself, through sheer will, to stop, 20 feet from them and just watch. He could feel it though, feel the Spark, even then, the energy, running of Stiles in thick waves, uncontained, uncontrolled, with nowhere to go.

“This is private property,” Derek said and watched the boys fidget, their faces contorting in amusement and bravado. They reeked of hormones and sweat and fear. They looked at him, looked at each other. He could have sworn Stiles rolled his eyes and swore under his breath, maybe _asshole_.

There were a lot of things, Derek realized, he’d like to do over, if he had the time.

\--

This one, too.

In the pool, the sharp sting of chlorine filling his nose and mouth, his body a dead weight, and everything wet and heavy. And there was Stiles, of course, hard arm wrapped around his chest, feet kicking, churning up water, knocking against Derek’s shins. Hours, Derek knew. Stiles did this for _hours_ and Derek never gave it a second thought at the time.

“How are you doing this,” Derek gasped, even though he suddenly knew the answer. His lungs hurt.

“You know how,” Stiles said, spitting water everywhere. “You think I could haul your big, muscly ass around without a little supernatural Sparky help?”

Later, dry and exhausted, in the car outside the Stilinski home, pointedly not looking at each other.

“Look,” Derek started, voice quavering, unsure. “Sometimes, people might tell you to stop it.” He was talking slowly, with care, conscious of where they were and where Derek was in this particular timeline. “I might even do that, sometimes, because I’m stupid about it and stupid about you. I see what it takes out of you and sometimes I may say things that hurt. Like. In the future.”

“Dude,” Stiles said. “How much water did you swallow down there?” He laughed and rubbed his palms on his thighs. “In the _future_?”

 _Remember,_ Derek thought. _Don’t forget._

“It’s stupid,” Derek said and his voice sounded rough. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Stiles laughed. He actually laughed and for a second hope bloomed in Derek’s chest. “Hello. We just finished fighting off a human-sized lizard thing. My friends are werewolves. You think you talking about our future selves and explaining why you were hugging me and crying into my chest the other day is going to surprise me?”

Derek blinked. “You remember that?”

“Derek! What is going on!” Stiles finally looked directly at him and he didn’t look mad, exactly. He looked frustrated. And tired. And tense. And _curious_.

Ok then.

“I’m not in the right place. This isn’t. I mean. I’m here but I’m not supposed to be _here_. Right now. I’ve already been here. And left. And now I’m here again. And things. Things have transpired in the future. Things that you. The you that you are now, don’t realize yet. And I’m stuck here, apparently what’s going to happen, but at the same time trying to deal with you not knowing, ok? It’s just.” He sighed again. “It’s complicated.”

“Derek,” said Stiles. “If you’re trying to tell me you’re from another dimension, another time, another part of life, then yeah. I get it. I believe you. You’ve convinced me and frankly nothing shocks me in this fucking town anymore.” He paused and swallowed. “I’m just sorry I don’t know. That I don’t know what _you_ know or remember what you remember because. I really really would. Like to know.” He swallowed again. “What happens to us.”

“Oh,” Derek said.

“Just tell me one thing,” Stiles said quietly. “Is it good?”

Derek thought about that. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, letting himself smile. “It's so good.”

\--

Then he was driving. He was driving the Camaro and wasn’t _that_ a blast.

“Blast from the _past_ ,” he said and laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Derek said. He shook his head. “Sorry. You were talking about something. Lydia, right?”

Stiles groaned. “Don’t remind me, dude. It’s too humiliating for words.”

Derek sucked in a breath. “You could cast a spell, couldn’t you?” he said, thinking of the Spark, thinking of energy spilling from the tips of Stiles’ long, elegant fingers, light cast on the ground, light around him, spinning up, creating anything Stiles wanted. If it was Lydia he wanted, he could get her. _Would_ get her, for awhile.

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “A spell?” He tapped his hand on his thigh, jiggled his knee. So twitchy back then Derek thought. All the time, always moving. All of that energy still bottled and contained just below the surface, waiting to be scratched and released. So fucking amazing, even then. Derek should have been in awe. “Do you mean a _love_ spell?”

“Well, you’ve been practicing right?

“You know you can’t make people love you, right?” Stiles voice was low and hard now, a tinge of bitterness seeping into the edges of it. Everything was off. Derek had ruined the moment. Stupid.

“Yeah. No. I mean, I just thought.”

“Love is different than all that other shit I do. All those tricks and funny things, yeah, they’re good for a laugh and I dunno, maybe I’ll do something with them one day, with some training. But love? That’s serious shit, Derek. You don’t mess around with that.”

Derek swallowed. “But you, you care about her, right? Did I get that right?”

Stiles huffed out a breath through his nose. His hand, which had stilled, suddenly took up a life of its own again, tapping erratically on his thigh.

“People see things when they see them, I guess. When they’re ready.” His voice was heavy, slow, deliberate.

Derek glanced over. Stiles’ skin was flushed. Maybe it was the warmth of the car. Maybe that was it.

\--

At the edge of _here_ and _there_ it got very dark, but Derek saw everything much more clearly, finally.

“Have you always looked at me like this?” Derek asked, stepping closer. They were on the Stilinski porch, Stiles poised to go inside, Derek hovering the at the bottom of the stairs. Stiles’ face went red. It was a fascinating progression, starting on his cheeks and spreading, like liquid, up to his ears and down the long expanse of his neck to pool along his collarbones.

“Don’t be like that,” Stiles said and he held his lower lip between his teeth. “Don’t be a jerk like that.”

Derek took a step up. He shook his head and held out a hand, placating. “I’m not, I swear. I just. I missed so much, back then.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles looked over his shoulder. “You’re not making any sense, dude.”

Derek stepped closer, and closer again, until the tips of their shoes were touching, their breaths mingling. Derek could feel Stiles’ heat, the zing of his Spark.

 _I remember this_ , Derek thought, on the verge of panic, hysteria nipping at his ribs. _I remember this. How could I have forgotten?_

Stiles’ lips were so soft and so warm on his and the air around them was so cold. This was a December long ago, one before the December he just left. And here was Stiles, not his Stiles, but one who came before, brash and banging about, long limbs and generous mouth always moving. This Stiles never took his eyes off him, but not in the same way. These eyes were nervous, unsure, and this mouth was unpracticed. Derek leaned into it all the same, taking Stiles by surprise. Derek slid the fingers of his right hand up over the collar of Stiles’ shirt, onto exposed skin, up the side of his neck, tendons taut and straining, giving every inch, and stopped at the short, shorn line of hair just above the hood of Stiles’ winter jacket. Stiles kissed him and Derek kissed him right back, let the tip of his tongue touch the middle of Stiles’ bottom lip just once, and felt Stiles’ entire body trembled in joy or shock or fear, he wasn’t sure.

 _Don’t forget this_ , Derek thought and held on tighter to be sure. This is the first kiss and the first time you fought it off, dismissed Stiles and probably made him feel like shit. Made him feel like he couldn’t control his Spark, that he’d end up hurting himself, hurting someone else.

 _Zing_ , went the Spark. Zing zing all along Derek’s mouth. There it is, he thought. It’s been there all along, and he leaned into it even more.

“Oh, Stiles said, pulling back. His lips were wet and shiny and his eyes, too. He blinked once, twice and swallowed like it hurt. “Ok. Huh. Wow. I wasn’t like. Expecting you to. Uh.” He licked those lips three times and Derek felt light-headed 

“Thank you,” Derek said, stiff and formal as a suitor. He reached out to steady himself on the porch railing. Everything was white and still and moving too fast, too. There were circles and spinning and he couldn’t catch his breath, suddenly. “You. You’re good at that.” He blinked and looked right at Stiles. “But you get so much better.”

Stiles laughed. “Ok.” He shook his head, touched his wet lips with two fingers, still unbelieving. “You’re just full of surprises, Derek Hale. I think you’re gonna make me fall in love with you.”

And that was that, and the ground broke free and Derek was light and heavy, pinwheeling and loose, and Stiles was moving forward ready to grab, face gone white with surprise and his mouth was moving, maybe yelling his name as Derek fell and fell and fell.

 _Oh,_ Derek thought, just before, he landed. _This is going to hurt._

\--

“Hey, handsome.”

Derek blinked and blinked again. He felt heavy and wet and sore and thought immediately, ah, I’m back in the pool but it’s ok because Stiles is here with me. Focus, he thought, gather every detail and remember everything before it disappears again.

Stiles’ face, his lovely bright and shining face, moved into view, peering down, frown lines between his eyes. Glasses. He was wearing glasses, square and black-framed and his hair was longer, curling out from under his blue beanie.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said still staring. He couldn’t look away if he tried. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Stiles squeezed him again. “Falling off the roof? Yeah that was pretty stupid. Stringing Christmas lights alone when I _told_ you repeatedly not to. Yeah. Very stupid.”

“Yeah, for that too.” Derek closed his eyes. “For the stuff before though. The fight. What I said. That was even stupider.”

“Stupider.”

“I worry about you. Getting worn out. Getting hurt.”

“Hmm,” Stiles said. “And yet, it’s been how many years since that’s happened?” He tilted his head. “And here _you_ are, sprawled on the ground with as yet unknown injuries. Interesting.”

“I was wrong and it was wrong and when I saw you, from before, I realized how stupid it was.” He opened his eyes and saw Stiles watching, even more concerned than before.

“Did you land _directly_ on your head, then?”

 _You are so beautiful,_ Derek thought. _You are so lovely and so close and I want to keep you forever._ He lifted one heavy, wet hand and found Stiles. Stiles’ mittens were off, lying next to them in the snow, red on white. Stiles’ fingers were very cold on his and they squeezed hard.

“You back with me?” Stiles said.

“I was gone,” Derek said and Stiles grinned, but his lips were tight. His whole body was shaking under his, Derek realized, a fine tremor, barely noticeable but Derek knew. He always knew things about Stiles.

“You were,” Stiles said blinking fast. “You were for a bit and I waited for you to come back.” He exhaled a long breath, a cloud of white above Derek, shrouding his face for a moment. There were sirens now, in the distant and drawing closer.

“Oh,” said Derek. “Ow.” He shifted on the light layer of snow, powder seeping into the space between his untucked shirt and the waist of his jeans. Cold under his thighs and calves, his back and shoulders and head cradled in Stiles’ trembling lap.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “They’re on their way.” He breathed in deep at last, looked away. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.” Derek closed his eyes, saw Stiles here and there and further away, Stiles with the round face and round cheeks, slimmer Stiles, Stiles with the shrewd eyes, the kind eyes, the knowing eyes, Stiles with people who were not him, Stiles watching. Stiles waiting.

“But I’m back now, and I won’t go anywhere again.”

“Good,” Stiles said as the ambulance pulled up to the curb, chunks of ice popping under the wheels like firecrackers, little explosions in the cold. “Neither of us.”

\--

Christmas day bled into a night that bloomed cold and still, falling suddenly and early, like it did this time of year. Dinner with the Sheriff and Melissa, Scott and Allison and the baby, fat and babbling in her chair, then rolling under the tree and grabbing for low-hanging ornaments with a chubby, uncoordinated fist while her parents took turns snatching her up.

Later, their car slid into the driveway of their home — their home! Small and compact, Christmas lights strung halfway across the front eaves, red and green and white, the other half dangling down, loose, to the frozen ground.

“Come,” Stiles said, cutting the engine, fingers tugging at the cuff of Derek’s jacket. “Come. I have something to show you.”

Their backyard was square and white and still and they made first footprints in the snow together, one after the other.

“Ready?” Stiles said.

Derek took in the trees, the old picnic table, the frozen garden. He smiled.

“Derek. Derek, _watch_ ,” Stiles said. “Are you watching?”

Stiles made sure Derek’s eyes were on him, then squared his shoulders under his heavy woolen coat and plaid shirt under that, and lifted his hands up to chest level. His expression settled into something calm and distant, but focused, body barely thrumming with his pent up Spark. And then the zing. And then the lights, shooting from his fingertips, his entire hands glowing too bright to look at, lights shooting up into the sky one after another, streaking high and then bursting into reds and greens and whites and blues cracking loud in the dark sky.

They stood side by side, staring up, watching and listening until Stiles stopped, exhausted, _zing zing zing_ , and he turned to look directly at Derek, face calm and still again.

“Good?” he said.

“Good,” Derek said. “You did so good, Stiles.”

Stiles tucked himself up into Derek’s space, pushing his head into the curve between Derek’s chin and chest where it was warmest. He put his arms around Derek and pulled on him, pulled him close and hard and held him still.

“Fireworks,” said Derek, in awe, as always, of this Stiles, of any Stiles, all of them his, and this one in particular. His heart was all tied up, slamming into the backs of his ribs as the last lights streaked into the sky over their heads, falling and fading out with quiet hisses and crackles. Later, under the blankets, Derek would tell him everything that had happened. Stiles would listen and nod and then kiss him, touch him all over, top to toe. They would slide together, gasping and hitching while Derek murmured about the woods and the pool, the Stiles _then_ and the Stiles _now_ , soft mouth pressed up against every part of his skin as the sky lit up above them. “It’s beautiful. It’s so beautiful.”

“Something with explosions,” Stiles whispered against Derek’s hammering heart, and held on tighter. “Remember?”

Boom, went everything. Boom, boom, _boom_.

\--


End file.
